


Grapes Unto Wine

by ChaosandMayhem



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), Comedy, Gen, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Sad Ending, Tales from the Shadows (Final Fantasy XIV), The Convocation of Fourteen (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosandMayhem/pseuds/ChaosandMayhem
Summary: Azem, believing that forgiveness is easier attained than permission, "borrowed" one of Lahabrea's creations for a quick jaunt around the world.Lahabrea is, for lack of a better word, displeased.
Relationships: Azem & Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Grapes Unto Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Having recently finished the MSQ and fallen head-over-heels for the Ascians as a whole (and Lahabrea in particular), I was struck by inspiration from Tales of the Shadows. This is a bit sillier and a bit more light-hearted than most Ascian fare, I'm sure, but, well...if Azem was one-fourteenth of the chaotic nuisance my WoL is, then I suppose its fair game.
> 
> As always, thanks to Belphegor for her beta work!
> 
> Enjoy!

**Grapes unto Wine**

He found Azem in the orchard, pelting children with fruit.

The presence of children gave Lahabrea pause. It was not that he _disliked_ children. Far from it. They were the loudest voices at his lectures, the most inquisitive, the ones who gave him the greatest amount of pause before continuing on. Children in lecture halls he quite liked. But one-on-one, without the distance and formality afforded by a stage, he faltered.

In informal settings children were something of a mystery to him. Their questions came in tumbling tides, voices shrill and demanding. The boldest grasped at his robes while the shy ones hid behind their mothers. Lahabrea never knew how to oscillate between the many varieties of children without advanced preparation. The shier ones were the worst; he always spoke too loudly, too quickly, and left them burying their faces in their mother’s robes.

Not like Azem. Azem had a natural way with children. He would play and roughhouse with the bolder ones, and make funny faces and tell silly stories until the shy ones shrieked with laughter. Convocation member or no, Azem was half a child himself at times: he loved songs and tall tales, he loved harmless mischief and asking a thousand questions.

And, like a child, Azem believed in begging forgiveness rather than asking permission.

The edges of Lahabrea’s robes swished against the grass. The orchard, situated not far from the Akadaemia Anyder, was a favorite spot of the young ones. In the shade of apple trees they studied and played, practicing mastery over creation magic. Many a time Lahabrea had glanced out the window of his office to watch children turning fruits into candy and sticks into wands.

Azem appeared to be leading one such exercise. He sat high in the boughs of an apple tree, summoning apples into his hand and hucking them down at the crowd of children below. The older ones shot their hands out, used the innate aether of the wind to slow the apples’ descent. The younger children simply scurried after the fruit that hit the ground. Laughter rang throughout the orchard and out into the sunny afternoon.

Lahabrea stopped at the edge of the display with arms crossed. Little by little the crowd became aware of his presence. Little by little the laughter died, until only Azem’s high, ringing laugh remained.

Lahabrea didn’t even have to speak. One downward twitch of his lips sent the children sprinting in every direction. He ignored those who dove behind nearby trees in favor of Azem, who looked down at him with a smile.

His hood had been pushed back to reveal a shock of silvery hair. The black mask of his office had been knocked askew. It slipped further down his nose as Azem swung from branch-to-branch. He landed lightly on his feet in front of Lahabrea.

“Azem,” Lahabrea said flatly.

“Oooh, you’re mad at me,” Azem said as he fixed his mask into place.

“ _Mad_?” Lahabrea repeated. He sniffed. “Hardly.”

“Then you’re…?”

“Furious. Irate. Enraged. _Livid_ —!”

Azem let several more colorful adjectives go by without comment. Only when Lahabrea finally paused for breath did he suggest “Belligerent?”

“Do not get coy!” Lahabrea poked a finger into Azem’s chest, prompting a laugh from his fellow Convocation member. “You know perfectly well why I’m here!”

“Is it because I stole Ifrita—”

“YES, IT IS BECAUSE YOU STOLE IFRITA!”

Azem winced. A small chorus of laughter sounded from behind the surrounding trees. Both Convocation members ignored their chorus line. Lahabrea planted his hands on his hips. Azem twiddled his thumbs, shoulders hunched against the weight of Lahabrea’s indignation.

“Technically,” Azem began, “I didn’t _steal_ Ifrita. I _borrowed_ Ifrita. With every intention of bringing her back.”

“Once you had flushed her with volcanic energy, taken her out to sea, and exploded her over the open ocean?! You were going to give her back after THAT?!”

“…yes?”

Thunder cracked through the otherwise blue sky. Lahabrea scowled, an expression that had sent bigger men scurrying before him. The concept of Ifrita was one of his crown jewels of creation research. She had taken moons of aetherical research and experimentation. Of all the elements, only lightning compared to fire in terms of temperament. To create a being of stable fire aether, to have it last, was a rare and glowing achievement. And to have his best concept used thus, as a _punching bag_ , was an outrage bordering on insult.

Lahabrea had half a mind to smite Azem where he stood. The other half of his mind, fortunately, was cognizant of the fact that children were watching, _and_ smiting another member of the Convocation did not suit his role as Speaker.

He took a deep breath. “Have you ever met a problem you could not punch into oblivion?”

“Only the one standing in front of me,” Azem said.

More snickers from the sidelines. Lahabrea closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he reopened them, it was to find Azem grinning wickedly. “You do your office no credit,” Lahabrea said, shifting to fold his arms over his chest once more. “Borrowing Ifrita without my blessing, traveling halfway around the world with a fire concept in tow—”

“She was very well-behaved,” Azem added, in what he no-doubt thought was a mollifying tone.

“—in order to save an island predestined for its end—and for what? The Convocation had accepted the island’s destruction in the wake of the volcano. The villagers had likewise accepted its end! _What_ on this star was so worth delving headlong into the fray for?!” Beneath the indignation, there was a faint appeal in Lahabrea’s voice. He was trying very, very hard to understand Azem’s point of view. Very, very hard.

“Grapes.”

Silence.

Silence broken only by the whisper of wind through the trees. Lahabrea stood stock-still, so still not even the rise and fall of his chest could be seen. He said nothing. Only stared at Azem with jaw hanging open. After a solid minute of this morbid silence Azem tentatively reached forward to tug at the Speaker’s sleeve. When even this failed Azem poked him in the ribs. “Laha…?”

“Grapes,” Lahabrea said at last, in a strained voice. “You pilfered my Ifrita away, defied the wishes of the Convocation—for GRAPES?!”

“They are particularly delicious grapes. And they make a fantastic wine. In fact,” Azem flicked his wrist, and a bottle of wine materialized in the air between them. “I brought you back a bottle specifically. Fire wine, the locals call it.”

A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. No doubt he thought he was being clever.

“And,” Azem continued, with such an air of magnanimity one would be forgiven for thinking Lahabrea owed _him_ an apology, “I was hoping you might bring that wine with you to dinner tonight. I have some observations about Ifrita’s nature I’d love to share with you.”

Behind the red mask and the black hood an eyebrow lifted. “You’re going to tell me about my own creation?”

“You mistake me, Speaker. I only wish to share thoughts I had when observing Ifrita far from the Akadaemia’s halls. It was a very enlightening look at the nature of constrained fire aether in an unsupervised setting.”

The bottle hung in the air between them like temptation.

Curiosity was ever an academic’s weakness. Lahabrea fought back a thousand different questions, but somehow one slipped past his lips: “What observations?”

Azem shrugged. “Fire is temperamental, much like lightning and wind. And it is further hindered by its need for a constant fuel source.”

“I am very much aware of that, thank you.”

“Ifrita needed constant energy in order to maintain her shape and form. The volcanic aether she absorbed not only stabilized her, but strengthened her as well. You have one fierce creature in your catalog, Speaker.” Azem shook back his sleeve to reveal a healing burn on his arm. “But nevertheless, she is weaker without that influx of aether.”

Lahabrea grimaced at the burn. Nevertheless he kept his attention on the academic principle on hand. “Yes, yes, Ifrita is one of the more fragile concepts, I am aware, but unless you have a well-spring of fire aether ready to travel at a moment’s notice—”

“I was thinking,” Azem countered, “that Ifrita needs less of a well-spring, and more of an anchor. Something infused with aether to keep her steady and strong.”

Lahabrea thought the proposal over. “It would have to be massive,” he said at last.

“To be sure, in order to give her the necessary influx—”

“But lightweight as well, otherwise it would take ages to summon—”

“Not a ship’s anchor, then—”

“No. Slimmer. But it would have to be durable, made of steel or like—but then, how would it withstand the flames it is supposed to bolster…?”

“An intriguing question. I suppose,” Azem said with an easy smile, “we’ll just have to discuss further implications over dinner.”

Lahabrea eyed him. And then snatched the bottle of fire wine out of the air between them. “Do not think,” he said, “this means you are forgiven, or that I will suffer a repeat incident.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” With that, Azem drew his hood back over his head. “Meet me in my apartments, tonight, after the sixth bell?”

Lahabrea nodded once before pivoting on his heel and walking away. Behind him he could hear the children asking excitedly about his battle with the empowered Ifrita, and if he could teach them how to fight. Azem laughed at that, and instead promised to show them how to get out of trouble first.

A corner of Lahabrea’s mouth twitched upwards. The Traveler certainly had a knack for that.

**…**

Heat from the Bowl of Embers seared mortal lungs. But to Lahabrea it mattered little. Heat and flame had long been his to command. To breathe in sulfuric air was, at this point, almost second nature.

The dull ache in his chest, then, could only be blamed on the twisted manifestation dead on the ground. Massive, rail-thin, charred flesh stretched thin over protruding bone—this abomination called Ifrit held little in common with the beautiful creation he had once willed into the world. But the flame remained, and as much as he loathed to do so Lahabrea presided over the summoning of Ifrit.

How much did it remember? he wondered. Was there a spark of Amaurot in there still, small and flickering but defiant against the oblivion? Or had all memory of its original master been snuffed out?

Not that it mattered now. The monster bearing Ifrita’s flame had been extinguished, and even now its essence had begun to fade. Its vanquisher—the fledgling Warrior of Light, blessed of Hydaelyn—threw down his bow and collapsed to his knees. Even from here Lahabrea could hear the sound of retching. Further proof that even the strongest among them wallowed in imperfection.

Even so…

Lahabrea had never been as gifted in soulcraft as Emet-Selch. But for an instant—just an instant—he thought he had seen something as the battle raged. Something within the Warrior of Light: a spark against the dark. An echo of a familiar story in a fractured soul.

Azem had fought Ifrita once, he recalled, and the fight that had just unfolded in the Bowl of Embers was not unlike the tale Azem had woven for him ages ago. The fire wine had been sweet, and strong, and Lahabrea hadn’t been able to fight the flush of pride when Azem described how well Ifrita fought.

Gone, now. All of it. Only the bitter taste in his mouth remained.

Plans were proceeding apace. He had no cause to linger. Lahabrea turned on his heel and stepped into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> *throws confetti*
> 
> Thanks for reading! Have a great day! :)
> 
> Chaos


End file.
